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For much of the past two decades, the term \u201cneighborhood bar\u201d was thrown around like a pejorative. It signaled a step down in quality from your local <\/span>cocktail<\/span><\/i> bar. It meant the type of place that wouldn\u2019t know whether to shake or stir a Negroni, kept their vermouth unrefrigerated, or still claimed that gin could be \u201cbruised.\u201d But, as cocktail culture took a decisive turn toward the high-concept, high-tech, foam-topped science projects that dominate <\/span>best-of lists<\/span><\/a> across the globe, \u201cneighborhood bar\u201d has taken on new meaning.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n Now, the term is emphatically embraced by a wave of newcomers tapping into the <\/span>studied nonchalance of the good ol\u2019 \u201cregular bar<\/span><\/a>,\u201d hoping to lure an audience weary of indecipherable menus and <\/span>clarified everything<\/span><\/a>. To put an exclamation mark on the point, Death & Co., the lauded upscale craft cocktail \u201c<\/span>chain<\/span><\/a>,\u201d has even launched a subsidiary called Close Company, which <\/span>announced on Instagram<\/span><\/a>: \u201cWe\u2019re not afraid to say we\u2019re here to be your neighborhood bar.\u201d The term, it seems, is being reclaimed.<\/span><\/p>\n
For me, the neighborhood bar is exactly where I want to be. It\u2019s the type of space where the menu rarely changes, if there\u2019s a menu at all. A place where cocktails are the backdrop to conversation, not the subject of it. Where simplicity\u2014not to be mistaken for a lack of ambition\u2014is the reigning philosophy. Ironically, when I think about the bars that best fit this description today, I think of places like New York\u2019s Attaboy, Little Branch, Seaborne\u2014pioneering cocktail bars, molded by the <\/span>late Sasha Petraske<\/span><\/a>, that once occupied the avant-garde and are now, once again, the model to emulate, though this time it\u2019s not because they are the only ones with an ice program. It\u2019s a reminder that the classics\u2014the drinks that drew most of us into this world in the first place\u2014are classics for a reason.<\/span><\/p>\n
In New York, my favorite neighborhood bar is The Long Island Bar in Brooklyn, which happens to be the platonic ideal of the category\u2014an unpretentious place with nothing but hits on the (unchanging) menu. Stoa, on the opposite coast in San Francisco, Sportsman\u2019s in Chicago and Ticonderoga Club in Atlanta have also all devoted their programs to simple drinks done well in a laid-back atmosphere.<\/span><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n This is not to say that I don\u2019t enjoy the ultra modern, high-touch experience at some of the most celebrated bars today. I\u2019ve had truly transcendental drinks and first-rate hospitality at bars like Tay\u0113r + Elementary (London), Bar Nouveau (Paris) and Overstory (Manhattan), to name a few. But in a sea of high-concept sameness, the neighborhood bar is a life raft. So if you\u2019re looking for me, you know where to find me.<\/span><\/p>\n
<\/p>\n This is an excerpt from our Saturday newsletter, a weekly dispatch from our editors on the latest news in the drinks world.\u00a0Subscribe<\/a>\u00a0for more takes like this in your inbox.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n
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